4am. The telephone starts ringing. Goddammit … it’s all the way on the other side of the room, and every time my foot tries to make contact with the ground, the floor rolls out of the way and tries to hit me in the face. It succeeds a couple times before I manage to plop down into a chair and drag myself over to the phone. It’s Frederique. Again. Ernesto left him. Again. It’s like the fourth time this week. So I know what this means. I will go back to bed and wake up in 4 hours with a splitting headache and an inbox full of “rough mixes” that Frederique wants me to “critique”. But Jesus Christ, I don’t even have the vocabulary to describe, let alone criticize, the raw emotion contained in these tracks that he peels off like sheets from a sketchpad, each one developed in finer detail, with tangents shooting off in every direction. A transitional breakdown out of the second verse becomes a complete landscape, telescoping inwards on itself until I lose any perspective on where it even started, but then the chorus swoops in out of the sunrise and snatches me up like a hawk and drags me skyward, gesturing downwards with a dip of its wings and showing me every broken-hearted moment of his tumultuous sexcapades with Ernesto, and I start dripping tears of loss for a man I’ve never even met, or really ever completely believed to exist, because I kind of wonder if everything that Frederique ever tells me might not be a complete fabrication, dreamed up in some Oxycontin haze in an attempt to hold the attention of anyone and everyone he has ever made eye contact with. Romance is hopeless, everything ends in loss and sorrow, but even with a splitting headache and a stomach still half-full of vomit-to-be, for the six minutes this track lasts, the world is euphoria and lust and throbbing bass bins belching a kick-drum kingdom of ass-shaking glorious wonder.